


Stop, Don't Pass Go

by bexorz



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, ask-spiderpool - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Confrontation, M/M, Masturbation, Misunderstandings, Regret, Spideypool - Freeform, ask-spiderpool, self injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-17
Updated: 2016-06-17
Packaged: 2018-07-15 17:05:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7231213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexorz/pseuds/bexorz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An ask-spiderpool fic.</p><p>Wade and Peter have shared their first kiss. It didn't go the way that either of them had planned, and now they are dealing with the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop, Don't Pass Go

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sciderman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciderman/gifts).



> I consulted with Sci on this. It is basically to fill in gaps which are difficult to portray in an ask blog.
> 
> Also I had too many f e e l i n g s and had to pound them out.

First it was a hot shower. Scarred fingers yanking at the dingy old faucet handle, cranking the spray as hard as it would go. Wade’s jaw no longer ached–the broken bones had healed hours ago–but this one injury he still seemed to feel. Was it the time of day, or the contents of his last meal that made the pain linger, or was it because of who it was exactly that had struck him?

A combination?

Nate's apartment—when he was actually in town (or time period, as it were)—was a shithole, although it wasn't as bad as some places that Wade had stayed. Still, in lieu of upgrading to a larger hot water tank, or even an on-demand system, management kept the water in the tank very very hot. This was with the expectation that tenants would use less of it. This suited him just fine.

After a long minute the cold water finally flushed out of the pipes, replaced by hot. Steam billowed around him, and he hissed through his teeth as his skin reddened and burned. His skin always hurt—chronic pain he had gotten used to living with—but this was on another level, and every instinct he had was screaming at him to get away from the pain.

The burning shortly turned into that nerve-tingling sensation that was so familiar to him; his skin was regenerating almost as quickly as it was damaged. It still hurt enormously, but it was different. Less describable. A combination of pain and relief swirling and mingling together that only someone with a healing factor would understand.

Come to think of it, Wade didn’t understand it much himself, he just had come to accept it.

He felt filthy. That's why he was doing this to himself. The sick feeling in his stomach, which had curdled there when he put Spider-Man's face in the crosshairs of the rifle scope, had returned almost the moment they had parted company. Before that, even, when he'd said the things he'd said.

Maybe scalding his flesh in the shower would clear that feeling from his system.

Maybe third degree burns all over his body would be enough to forget what he'd said to Peter.

The problem was, some part of him had meant every word of it.

 _That would be me_.

**I still can’t believe we said that.**

It wasn't fair. The water hurt too much for him to be able to articulate why, exactly, it wasn't fair—even in his own thoughts—but it wasn't fair.

_Like hell you don’t know why it’s not fair._

**We could have been nicer. We could have kept kissing him.**

_We had to make a point._

**What point? That we’re an asshole? He was into it. We could have been in bed with him right this minute.**

Couldn’t the bastards in his head just leave him alone to mope for one measly evening?

He'd made it clear that he didn't want to talk, but he couldn't just let Pete expose his identity like he'd been about to. He couldn't—not with Nate’s warning ringing perpetually in his ear. He'd had to make a point. That it wasn’t safe. That Peter didn’t have to do what Tony wanted him to. That Peter didn’t _owe_ anything.

Yeah, he'd expected security to drag the guy off, but it had also been a possibility that Peter would chase him.

Of course that's what happened.

Of course he'd been put on the spot.

Of course he'd panicked, and done the only thing he could think of to keep Peter from demanding more answers out of him.

Being honest with Peter hadn't done him much good in the past, why should he have started now?

_Boy you're pathetic._

**It would be nice if we could hold it together around him for five minutes.**

_At least we didn't cry._

**What do you think we're doing now?**

_That's because of the burning water._

It was too bad the water and the burning couldn't stop the running commentary in his head.

_"It never happened."_

Wade had waited ages for Peter to... to... Fuck, he didn't even need to get into Peter's pants, he just wanted to not feel like he was expendable or taken for granted. He didn't even have to be Peter's only partner—

_Bullshit. You are totally the possessive type._

**We would have to fight the temptation to lock him in a closet.**

—he just wanted to feel respected and appreciated.

**You don't deserve respect after what you just did.**

_We_ were _trying to save his life._

**And now we've lost him to Tony, haven't we?**

_That is not something I needed to imagine._

"Why aren't we dating?" Peter had asked, months ago.

"Well, because you're repressed as shit, and 'it never happened', for starters,” Wade had wanted to reply.

It felt like every single time he had opened himself up, exposed his soft underbelly to Peter, Peter had spit it right back in his face. "Why do you sleep with your mask on?" Peter had asked.

Wade didn’t like feeling exposed.

Then Peter’d had the nerve to ask why they weren't dating.

Asking for a different kind of exposure.

Because Wade still sometimes felt like Peter saw him as morally and physically repulsive. No matter how goddamn hard he had tried—he'd tried so _fucking_ hard—to be the good man, good enough for Pete's high standards.

Not even that. He’d quit mercenary work for _himself_. Wasn’t it better if he wanted to do it for himself, and hadn’t done it just so Peter would accept him?

Changing who he was was difficult as hell, and when Peter had put the bug on him, it had invalidated all of Wade’s efforts.

The worst of it all was, Peter couldn't be bothered to be honest about himself, about his sexuality, in the privacy of their own home--where Wade could enjoy it with him in carnal bliss--but he could tell the entire fucking world?

"I'm Peter Parker," Wade whined in nasal mimicry of Pete's soft Queens accent. Water sprayed in his face and into his throat as he tilted his head back towards the shower head. "I'm so good and special and handsome, I can't be honest about myself unless I'm drunk or throwing caution completely to the fucking wind in front of hundreds of people."

Wade hadn't been able to help kissing Peter. He'd needed to get him to stop with the questions. Wade didn't want to be honest with him. He didn't even want to be honest with himself. The truth, as he saw it, never proved to do any good for anyone, least of all himself.

For a brief moment, there in the alleyway, he'd considered kicking Spider-Man in the balls—that would've made his point, and would've stunned Peter long enough so that he could escape. But Peter had started to take his mask off. Just like he’d been about to do up on the podium.

The red fabric of Peter’s mask had pulled up across those lips of his. Lips that accused easily, lips that laughed easily, lips that Wade had stared at so often, wondering what they'd feel like, what they’d taste like.

Wade had switched tactics.

If Spider-Man was _really finally_ going to come out, let him prove it. Let him prove how much it "could happen". Wade guessed that Peter would probably freak out when confronted with the reality of a man kissing him--just like he had before--wildly public confession or no. After all, Wade had just _shot_ at him.

Peter was “all about complicated”, so Wade would give him complicated. Complicated definitely described the way he was feeling.

He'd kissed Peter, swallowing the rest of that word _—complicated—_ as it left Pete's mouth. He'd expected Peter to pull away, spit, swear at him, whatever. But Peter didn't. Peter kissed him _back_ . Peter's mouth tasted like Altoids. His lips felt warm and pliant and _so fucking good._

Wade could hardly believe it when Pete leaned against him, deeper into the kiss, bracketing Wade's shoulders with his strong arms, practically shoving his tongue down Wade's throat.

And that little moan Peter made. Good fucking _god_.

What the fuck had Wade been thinking? How could he have not guessed?

_You're just special that way._

**Hey man, it was** **_nice._ **

It had been nice, yeah. But it hadn't been getting him _out_ of there, and running away was always at the top of his list when it came to handling personal issues. He needed to go. Needed. Desperately. Really. Really needed to be Somewhere Else™.

He had panicked before, when he’d initiated the kiss. Then he panicked again, when Peter had shifted against him, pressing even closer. Wade had been half hard from the moment Spider-Man had thrown him against the wall, showing off that delicious strength of his, but Wade’s pants were at least stiff enough that it wasn't _obvious_.

Spidey’s spandex hid _nothing_ . What became apparent to him when Peter moved was that Peter was really… _really_ into the kiss.

Not just in theory. Peter had been kissing him, moaning at him, and Peter had been hard as steel.

Complicated was how he both loved and hated Peter for how good he was.

Complicated was how he felt about Peter finally coming out, but in the worst way Wade thought he could.

He loved Peter for the way Peter probed his mouth with his tongue, sucked on his ear.

He hated Peter for dragging a noise out of him.

He loved the way Peter's hard, strong, wiry body felt against his.

He hated Peter for “it never happened”.

If he hadn't acted then, he would never have gotten out of there. He would've given in to his heart, not to mention his dick, which had gone to full attention pretty quickly after Pete’s tongue was in his mouth.

If Pete slept with him and decided his curiosity had been sated, Wade didn't think he could survive it. He couldn't handle being brushed aside yet again. His feelings of self worth were already fucking terrible, but they'd go subatomic if Pete rejected him again after going that far.

Wade couldn’t do it.

Wade didn't want to be anyone's regret, and he certainly didn't want to be anyone's kink.

Still, the things he'd said had been painful to say, knowing what he was probably throwing away, knowing how much it would hurt Peter. Hadn't stopped him, though. He'd earned the shattered jaw, fair and square.

The hot water was running out. Nate was pounding on the bathroom door, shouting something Wade was too in his head to understand. He understood the temperature change, though.

Drifting on auto-pilot, Wade shut off the shower, and stepped onto the bare linoleum floor. He'd neglected to put a towel down. Water dripped off his naked, scarred body, pooling under his feet.

The last thing he did before he left the bathroom was to punch his stupid face in the stupid mirror and drip blood all over the sink and listen to Nate keep pounding on the door and--

**Woo, looks like that hot water was a bit too much for us.**

_This floor tastes like plantar’s warts._

 

* * *

 

It took most of what was left of Peter's frayed self-control to keep from slamming the apartment door when he got home that night. The entire day had been a complete disaster, and all he wanted was to pretend that it had never happ–

Scowling, he threw his backpack across the room, and fell face first over the back of the couch. The action was accompanied by a brief scream of self-loathing and frustration, muffled into the cushion.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, remembering the feeling of Deadpool's jaw cracking when he'd hit him.

Peter hadn’t just broken Wade’s jaw. He’d _shattered_ it.

Even with the cruel things Wade had said, Pete could not believe that he’d lost it like that. The memory of how his face looked, bent and twisted in ways not natural for the human body, dug at Peter’s gut like a knife. If Wade had been an ordinary person--

But he wasn’t. Wade had a healing factor, and Wade was a fucking asshole. What the hell was the guy thinking? What was the game he was playing? Why did he keep messing with Peter's life after leaving it so abruptly? If he really cared so much about what Peter did, why didn’t he stay?

Peter didn't want to cry. He'd done enough of that already, and he was getting tired of it. It had been a huge mistake to put the bug on Wade, but it seemed like Wade and the universe weren't done making him pay for it yet. Why else would it still hurt? And why else would Wade keep bothering him? Was it because he cared, or because he wanted to get back at Peter?

_“Great to get it out of the system.”_

God, he wanted to be sick. Was that what Wade thought of him, that something physical was all Peter wanted from him?  Maybe he couldn't even blame Wade for that. He had been the one to shove Wade away all the time. Still, didn't Wade know him better than that?

As he lay there, bent over and half smothering himself into the couch, Peter searched his memory for everything he'd ever said to Deadpool that could give him the impression that Peter only wanted to sleep with him, and didn't genuinely care about him. It was terrible; he’d said so many things without thinking. The two of them were at least similar in that regard, although it didn't help their relationship any.

“‘Mister bisexual,’ who the hell does he think he is?” Peter grumbled and peeled himself up off the couch.

He didn’t even want to think about what Wade had said about his uncle. He had wanted Wade to be honest with him, but maybe he wasn’t ready for Wade’s sort of honesty. He was _absolutely not_ going to think about what Wade had said about Uncle Ben.

If only the kiss hadn't been so good until that point. It had been… it had been _so good_. Even though he'd known full well that Wade probably just didn't want to talk to him, he had thought…

Some part of him had thought that the kiss meant Wade had decided to come home. The shot across his arm had been a bit unorthodox, but it sure had gotten Peter's attention. They’d gotten alone together.

With their mouths pressed together, Wade's hands grabbing his face, Wade's thumbs teasing under the edge of his mask--it had felt so gentle and intimate--Peter had thought that it meant they could be together. Finally. That he’d wake up again with Wade’s heat pressed against his back, Wade’s arm draped over his waist. That he’d come crawling home through the window and smell Wade’s pancakes at three in the morning because Wade couldn’t sleep. That Wade's voice would be filling the apartment again, with his inane babble and his constant singing or humming in that _voice_ of his.

God. Wade’s voice. Right against his mouth. Right against his ear.

Remembering Wade’s voice, Peter was brought back into the moment when they were still kissing, when it had felt so good. He was torn between his broken heart stinging in his eyes, and the heat swimming low in his belly. What a pathetic dichotomy. His dick was hard, and his heart was a splattered mess.

Was he ever going to get any kind of closure from Wade, or was Wade just going to keep popping in at the worst moment to remind Peter of his failures? Remind him of what he could’ve had, could’ve been doing with Wade _right now_.

He could’ve been--

Cold shower. He needed a really cold shower.

So he took a long, cold shower. Teeth chattering, he stood under the spray with his arms wrapped around himself, staring at the mold in-between the tiles. Trying hard not to remember what Wade’s voice sounded like when he was singing in the bathroom.

Afterwards he only felt slightly better, but at least the heat was gone from between his legs. Instead, his stomach was growling and doing angry somersaults, and he realized it had been many hours since he had eaten anything. There had been too much excitement, and he hadn't had the chance.

Digging in the fridge, he came up with some two-day-old noodle leftovers from his outing with Miles, and sat down at the kitchen counter to watch the news while he ate. It spoke to his frame of mind that he didn't even bother to heat up the food. He just sat there, shoving it into his mouth while he stared morosely at the small tv in the kitchen to listen to all the horrible things people were saying about Spider-Man. The way his life had been going lately, he mostly agreed with them.

“Coward”? Sure. Otherwise, _it would have happened_ months ago, interruptions or not.

“Publicity stunt”? With his word vomit out there for everyone to play and replay on YouTube _ad nauseum et ad infinitum_ , and being piped over the airwaves on every radio blaring out of every fucking tourist shop in the city, even he could almost believe that's all it had been. Deadpool didn't seem to have thought that him coming out as bisexual had been worth anything.

Which was more or less the truth. He’d been losing his nerve, and had blurted it out instead of revealing his identity. It _hadn’t_ been worth anything in itself. If only he’d not lived in denial so long, when Wade had still been right there.

Stop thinking about him, Parker.

It was too quiet in the apartment with the tv off, so Pete left it on. Even though there was nothing at all he wanted to watch. He didn't want to talk to anyone, either, which was why he ignored the three calls from Tony, and, not surprisingly, about a dozen from Johnny.

Tony, he'd call back later, but Torch probably just wanted to talk to him about the “I'm bisexual” thing (ok and maybe him getting shot at), which was a conversation Pete wasn't willing to have yet. He wasn’t sure when he _would_ be willing, actually.

He'd already patrolled for the night, too wired to do anything else, so after he ate his sad little meal Peter went on to bed. Throwing his clothes carelessly on the floor, he pulled on a pair of loose boxers and crawled under the covers, wishing he could hibernate for a year until all of this was over.

Once again, the quiet got to him. He couldn't sleep; his mind was stuck in an endless loop, remembering the day’s events over and over. Trying to see how they could have played out differently.

After seeing Wade again, and remembering the last night Wade had spent at home, curled up with Peter in his bed, the apartment felt quieter and more empty than it had in weeks.

His bed did too.

_Must feel good, right?_

Peter bit his lip, dragged his pillow over his face, and huffed into it. Wade's voice… Peter _loved_ Wade's voice. Deep, rumbly, tickling inside Pete's ears when he made throaty noises.

_Must feel good, right?_

Peter couldn't get it out of his mind. Wade had been just as breathless from the kiss as Peter had. Peter remembered the noises Wade had made while they were kissing; he had sounded like he'd been enjoying it too. Like it felt good to him, too.

_… feels good, right?_

Peter remembered Wade's lips being nicer than he'd thought. Wade's gloved palms against his cheeks. The scars on Wade's skin when Peter had kissed across his cheek to suck on his earlobe. The _groan_ Wade had made _right_ _in Peter's ear._

_...it feels good..._

Peter moaned, a hitch in his throat as the memory sent a lightning strike of desire straight through his core. He curled in on himself, holding the pillow to his face with one hand while he reached under his boxers with the other to grasp his suddenly aching erection. The cold shower hadn't helped _at all_ , apparently.

Wade’s voice. Wade’s heat. Wade’s mouth. Wade’s heart fluttering in his neck. The way morning light danced over Wade’s naked back. The way Wade’s body felt pressed against his. 

The way Wade used to look at him.

A few minutes later Peter shuddered with his release, a little noise escaping his throat. He sobbed into the pillow, hating himself for doing this again, and hating himself for how much he was still in love with Wade W. Wilson, despite Wade being the biggest asshole on the planet.

He fell asleep like that: throat sore, hand filthy, not wanting to give a damn anymore.


End file.
